


25 Days of Christmas

by lilithiumwords



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 25 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Hobbit, Hobbit Advent Calendar, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fills for the <a href="http://hobbitadvent.tumblr.com/">Hobbit Advent</a>, a Christmas-themed tumblr event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mistletoe

On seeing the single little sprig of mistletoe, Thorin immediately chooses to flee the mountain.

Oh, he knows perfectly well why it is hanging, oh so innocently, above his door. It is often hung in Dwarvish doorways during the winter. An old story, about a dwarrowdam that brought her lover back to life with a kiss beneath the plant. A custom for dwarves who want a little romance in the long, cold months after the Dwarvish New Year.

Thorin will have none of it. Undoubtedly his sister hung it there this morning, before he woke for the day, and conveniently on the particular morning of the week when a certain Hobbit will visit him with breakfast. No, best to avoid the mountain altogether. Fíli needs some experience running things, anyway.

Thorin does not think very far into his plan, otherwise he might have anticipated the arrival of said Hobbit just as he is attempting to sneak out of his room. Instead of a neat escape, Thorin walks straight into Bilbo, who squeaks as Thorin's heavy cloak pushes against his tea tray.

Thorin freezes, staring down at Bilbo, who blinks up at him in confusion. He holds very still as disappointment filters through Bilbo's gaze as he looks over Thorin, who is dressed for a hopefully long trek through the woods. Perhaps even for the whole winter.

"Oh... are you going out already?" Bilbo asks, tone innocent enough, but something in his expression makes Thorin narrow his gaze.

"I have business in Dale," he tries, but beneath his gaze, Bilbo's mouth gathers in a truly magnificent pout -- because it is subtle and small, and just the sight of it makes Thorin feel wretched. "I meant to tell you."

"It's alright," Bilbo says, a little forlorn, and Thorin's guilt doubles. "I just, well. I made those pumpkin pastries you were interested in, and they had some fresh juice, made from those lovely oranges from Dale. But... I can eat it alone," he finishes, gaze flitting up to pierce Thorin's heart through thick eyelashes.

Damn his eyes. Thorin can never resist them.

"No," Thorin sighs, and he steps back to open his door more. "At least before I go, we can break our fast together. Come in, Bilbo." He very carefully does not look at the mistletoe as Bilbo's entire face lights up, at least until after Bilbo passes him. A small sigh of relief escapes him, and he completely misses the tiny smirk on Bilbo's face.

Thorin is about to close the door, glancing down the hall for nosy sisters, when he hears Bilbo's voice, light and curious, ask, "What's that hanging up there?"

It is all he can do not to bang his head on his own door.

"Nothing," Thorin says hurriedly, and he slams the door closed with more force than necessary. Much to his dismay, it knocks the mistletoe into the room, and Thorin watches in horror as it skitters across the stone floor to Bilbo's toes. Bilbo has since set down the tray, and Thorin barely stops himself from leaping across the room to grab the mistletoe -- but Bilbo is already picking it up, turning it over in his hands.

"Oh, this is mistletoe, isn't it? How charming, to hang it in doorways for the winter! We usually weave it into wreaths to hang on doors for Yule. We always give it to young couples, or those recently married, for good luck in their marriage. What do Dwarves use it for?" Bilbo asks, looking up at Thorin with those big, dark eyes, and Thorin knows he should not -- but he cannot resist Bilbo. He cannot help himself.

"We usually hang it up for kissing," Thorin sighs, going to sit heavily in a chair nearby, as he throws his cloak on his bed. He scowls at the mistletoe as Bilbo laughs in delight.

"Kissing! What a charming custom! New couples would never step out from under it, would they?" Bilbo snickers, turning back to the tea tray. Then a small smile slides over his mouth, and he holds up the mistletoe in contemplation.

"Do you have to kiss whoever you stand with when you're under it?" Bilbo asks, innocuously enough, but once again Thorin's hackles raise.

Eyeing Bilbo warily, he says slowly, "Yes," and just feels a sense of resigned doom as the little smile on Bilbo's face shifts into a truly devious smirk.

"Good, then," and then Bilbo holds it over Thorin's head, leaning down for a kiss.

Thorin really should have known. Not that he truly resents Bilbo, not when his Hobbit is crawling into his lap like he wants to crawl inside Thorin, his mouth working against Thorin's to such a degree that it leaves heat curling through his veins. Thorin breaks the kiss off with a gasp, sitting back in a daze as Bilbo licks his lips.

"I'll have to thank your sister," Bilbo murmurs, and Thorin glares at him.

"Shut up," he growls, and leans in to kiss Bilbo again. The kisses quickly grow hotter, soft pants sharing warm air between them, sharing lips and tongue while they make quick work of their clothes. Until Bilbo squirms out of his lap and runs, mostly naked, over to the bed. Thorin is quick to follow, losing his clothes faster than he pulled them on earlier in fear of this very situation.

He had wanted to _run away_ , damnit. Not end up in bed with Bilbo Baggins.

He can't say he regrets it, not when he makes it to the bed and sees Bilbo reclining against his pillows, holding the mistletoe above his lap and crooning with a smirk, "Come give us a kiss, Thorin."


	2. gingerbread

Flour, sugar, butter, eggs. Easy enough to find in the marketplace. The spices were more difficult. Cinnamon and cloves, standards for the kitchens of Men. The molasses was a bit rarer, but he found a trading stall that sold Master Beorn's honeys and syrups that carried the exact kind he needed. Finally, there was the ginger.

A passing Stiffbeard merchant had carried the savored root, and one merry haggling later, Dori son of Bori was the proud owner of all the ingredients necessary for his favorite winter treat.

_Gingerbread._

His mother had made it fresh for them when they were children, early in the morning before she would bustle off to her counting job at the jeweler's guild. They woke up to the smell of it, thick in the air. The kitchen would be warm (though empty), and Dori would bustle around, pushing cups of tea, plates of eggs and sausage, and slices of the soft, savory bread into his brothers' hands. 

Dori still made it now, every winter, without fail. He had learned the recipe at her knees, only a few years before she had died of sickness. When the snow began to fall above ground, Dori began to bake below. It never failed to bring his brothers home.

Bright and early in the morning, he set to baking with surety of his skill and the knowledge that sooner or later, Ori would wander into the house sleepy-eyed and sweet, and inevitably, Nori would duck in just in time for tea.

Indeed, Ori bumbled into the kitchen not ten minutes after Dori had set the pan out to cool, and he pouted when he realized that he was too early. Dori sent him out to fetch some eggs from the chickens to distract him.

The sausages were sizzling in the pan when Nori snuck in through the back door, twigs stuck in his braids and a mysterious substance on his left sleeve. Dori shot him a look but set Nori to preparing tea for all of them, and Nori did it just right, as their mother had taught them. Ori slide eggs onto three plates, Nori burned his fingers getting out the sausages, and soon it was time for the gingerbread.

Dori cut the slices carefully, smiling to himself as the incredible smell doubled. He hefted large pieces onto their plates, and his brothers both beamed at him, happy for their favorite treat. Dori tucked into his breakfast gladly, and for a while, their home was peaceful.

They were an odd family. Different fathers and a mother who had carried the weight of their income before her death, who had carried the dark looks and judging whispers cast at three sons who looked barely alike. She had raised them well, though, and had loved them fiercely, as only a mother could.

Dori would always miss her. At least he could make the recipes she had taught him, and if the scents of ginger and cinnamon brought back memories of his mother's smile, he need not have told anyone.

Ori and Nori already knew, anyway.


	3. mulled wine

Bofur would be the first to say that he was not a good cook. There were reasons that he left the cooking to his brother, why he avoided kitchens on most days, why Bifur gave him shifty looks every time Bofur so much as glanced at the spice racks.

Bofur could not cook. He had never cared to; Bombur cooked enough for both of them, and Bombur was fantastic at it. There was no need for Bofur to learn their mother's recipes or their father's secret stews. There was no reason for him to stand beside his brother as children, watching their mother grind spices into the perfect combination. There was no reason for any more knowledge than when to stir and what not to throw in a pot.

He couldn't cook, but he could make alcohol.

When winter hit in full and Yule approached, there was one particular drink that Bombur always begged Bofur to make. He had learned it from their grandfather when he was twenty-five, and he had made it every year after Grandpa Hombur's death. It made Bifur happy, especially after the axe took out half his mind.

Red wine that Bofur aged himself, simmered all day with clove, star anise, and snow oranges thick with juice. Sometimes he added cinnamon sticks, if they were lucky enough to find a merchant selling them this far north. Sometimes he threw in dried apples to soak up the flavor, picking them out and sucking on them whenever he passed through the kitchen. 

If Bifur visited, Bombur would make a sugarloaf that they would soak in rum. Then they would lay it on a rack over the pot and set it on fire, and the smell of burning sugar would make them all smile.

Mulled to perfection, hot enough in the evenings to warm his cold hands after a long day of mining. He, Bombur, and Bifur would sit for hours, talking and laughing, drinking the dark, rich drink. If they had guests coming, Bofur would make it and share with whoever visited. The perfect drink for the worst season.

Huddled now in the coldest cave of the entire trip back to Erebor, Bofur found himself craving that hot wine again. A miserable night -- nearly losing their burglar, Thorin's rage, the storm battle outside. He could use a hot toddy to ease the passage of the long night. Maybe after they reached Erebor, if he could find the spices, he would make it for everyone. Surely there would be a feast; he knew Bombur liked to talk about the wondrous foods he would buy with his share.

He had nearly dozed off, thinking of mulled wine and toasts around a hot fire, when he noticed Bilbo trying to sneak away. Then all thoughts of warmth and friends were forgotten, as the night tumbled out of control.


	4. snowfall

"MAMA!"

The shrill cry woke her immediately, heart rate doubling as she leapt from her covers, grabbing for the dagger she kept beneath her pillow. She heard tiny feet thudding in the hallway and had taken two steps toward the door, when her two small sons skidded into the room with wide, matching grins on their faces.

"Mama! It's snowing! Snowing! Mama, come look! Mama, can we go play? Mama, why are you holding a knife?" Fíli and Kíli said together, so fast that Dís had trouble sorting who said what.

"Oh, for..."

She muttered and tucked away her knife, silencing her two sons with a stern look as she relaxed, relieved that no danger was threatening her boys. Then her thoughts caught up with what they had said, and she groaned.

Fantastic start to the day. That would make the roads that much harder to travel, which meant that Thorin might not come home until next week. Her brother hated traveling through snow.

"Where is your father?" Dís yawned, following the boys through their small home to the kitchen, where a fire was already crackling and warming the room.

"Papa went to market! Can we go play?"

"Have you had breakfast?" Dís asked in a warning tone, and both Fíli and Kíli immediately pouted.

"Papa gave me and Kíli porridge! With eggs! And bacon! Can we go play, _please_?" Fíli begged, small braids twitching as he gave Dís a pleading look.

"Please?" Kíli echoed, pressing against Fíli's side and whining.

Dís observed them for a long moment, which made the pleading looks grow more desperate, until she smiled. She could smell the bacon and saw the empty bowls on the table. Their father must have fed them before leaving. Sweet husband that he was -- how had he wrangled them into eating before she even woke? She would never understand her husband's mysteries.

"Go get your coats. And don't forget your mittens! I'll not have those little fingers falling off," she ordered, and Fíli and Kíli let out matching cries of glee before rushing off to their room.

Dís found a mug of hot tea sitting on the hearth, alongside a pot of porridge, and her mien softened as she imagined her husband setting breakfast there earlier. She sipped the dark drink with relish, going back to her room to find her boots and winter cloak.

"Mama!!" called Kíli, and Dís sighed. Why did it have to be snowing?

Ten minutes later, Dís was standing a few feet from their door, a watchful eye on Fíli and Kíli as they ran around the small yard. Their tidy home was built into the mountain, but it still had a door and windows open to the elements, which Dís disliked. How she longed for a proper Dwarf hall! But Nogrod's deeper halls could not house any Dwarfs, and it was these little homes that kept them warm in winter.

She lifted her gaze and watched the snow falling. Thick and white, soft and cold. She could see it catching in Kíli's dark hair and Fíli's very small beard. It already covered the ground, thin as a sheet, but it would grow. She would have to clean the yard later, before the snow worsened.

She cupped a hand in the air, smiling to herself as she felt the snow melting in her palm. Despite her thoughts, she did enjoy the snow, as hard as it was to deal with sometimes. She had never imagined this life for herself -- but looking upon her boys, playing in the snow and happy, sweet, perfect in every way -- she did not regret it. Thorin would always burn with resentment for this way of life, but Dís accepted it. She had a good husband, two strong boys, and a roof over her head. She could ask for little more.

Speaking of her brother...

"UNCLE THORIN!" Kíli cried, and Dís looked up to see Thorin coming up to the path, pack heavy on his back and snow gathering in his hair. She smiled at him, and the fierce scowl on his face relaxed, a smile tugging at his mouth as Fíli and Kíli raced to meet him.

A good life.


	5. traditions

When Bilbo was a boy, Yule traditions were wide and varied. All of Foreyule was spent preparing -- cleaning, decorating, cooking, and all the social obligations their family could afford. Cards were sent to distant relatives, cakes and brandy to the neighbors, and various small gifts to the families that paid rent or worked around the smial during the year.

Then there was Yule. 

On the first day, the little family stayed in and lit the Yule log early in the morning, then put up the evergreen tree, with its bright yellow baubles and blue bells, tinkling whenever Bilbo ran past. Candles would be lit in the windows, with a big wreath on the door, holly weaved into the evergreen branch, and ivy trailing down the walls. They had a grand roast duck, with dressings and the special wine from Bungo's cellar.

Then, on the second day, it was off to the Bagginses in the morning, then the Tooks in the afternoon, and any relatives they could squeeze in between. More gifts exchanged, with puddings for the next day and pinched cheeks from all of his aunts, plus a few good scuffles with his cousins. Then they went home, late at night, with Bilbo's new toys, Bungo's new pipeweed, and Belladonna's new books.

On the third day, Bilbo would run around Hobbiton with the other lads that lived nearby, like Holman Greenhand and Tom Cotton. They would spend hours battling the girls with snowball fights and sledding races, only to slump back home worn and happy, to a blistering warm house with yesterday's puddings and the promise of presents in the morning. That night would be quiet, Bilbo tired from the day's antics, Bungo relaxing by the fire, and Belladonna knitting with her new yarn. They would watch the Yule log and drink hot cider, staying up as late as possible, and Bilbo would fall asleep in his mother's lap, while she and Bungo sang together softly.

On the fourth day, there would be presents, and tender mince pies for lunch, and sweet mead that evening. They lit every candle in every window and roasted nuts over the fire, then glazed them with sugar and cinnamon, eating them slowly. In the evening, Belladonna would bundle Bilbo up in a great scarf and coat, and they would go join their neighbors for caroling.

On the fifth day, Bilbo and Belladonna went out to visit friends and family, while Bungo stayed home to meet visitors. Little bags of candy were given to every household they visited, and the only reason Bilbo did not eat any of the candy he carried in a big basket was because he knew there would be countless little bags of sweets waiting at home. His mother would, of course, take the majority of them and put them in a tin for later, but Bilbo knew how to distract his mother so he could sneak the tin into his room.

On the last day of Yule, the whole family would go out to the Party Tree, where every family in their town would gather. The larger piles of snow would be cleared away, and a great bonfire would be lit in the field, where everyone would roast chestnuts and wish each other a good new year. If new couples were recently joined, someone would take heated stones and lay them out on the snow, and the couples would hop over the line together. It was always a great party, and everyone would go to sleep that night, happy for the new year and content with their lives, as the Yule log burned its last embers.

After his parents died, Bilbo continued some of the traditions. He visited his relatives, gave gifts as custom required, and made a few mince pies. He hung the decorations that his mother had inherited or made herself, and he lit the candles in the window every year. But his heart was not in the traditions any longer, and he ached when he opened a bottle of his father's special wine, when he opened the tin of candy, when he sang to himself late in the evening. He never gave up the traditions, though, clinging to the memories of happier times.

Then came the Dwarves, and an adventure that filled Bilbo's entire world, and shattered his heart to pieces, all in the span of one year.

When Bilbo came home, broken and hurting and so very lost, he was quite unprepared when Yule came around. Thinking of all the traditions, Bilbo began his own tradition. He lit thirteen candles and set them in his windows -- three here and three there, two for the front and two for the study, and two again in the kitchen -- and one last candle, that he set in his own window. He watched its glow, year after year, and dreamed on Yuletide of blue, blue eyes that smiled at him in the dark.


	6. bells

When Thorin asks Bilbo to stay in Erebor, after the Orcs are defeated, the Arkenstone is returned, and Dwarves and Men begin to return to the mountain, Bilbo does not know what he is thinking when he says yes.

He may have been seduced by blue, blue eyes.

He is swept into preparations and work, helping Ori and Balin in the library, Glóin in the treasure room, and Thorin in the council room, which holds thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit on a good day, and more than forty Dwarves, half a dozen Elves, at least ten Men, and one Hobbit on a bad day.

Bilbo prefers the good days.

As the weeks drag on, Bilbo begins to ache for the comforts of home. Thorin notices and tells him, rather shortly, to make arrangements, so Bilbo drafts a few letters with the assistance of Glóin and Balin. He writes to all of his relatives, short letters to the heads of the families, with longer letters to his Baggins and Took aunts and uncles, detailing where he has gone, what he has done, and what should happen with his home.

No matter what his cousin Otho desires, it will _not_ go to the Sackville-Bagginses. Bilbo wants his parents' home held in trust for when he might ever return, and so he dictates to Fíli and Kíli, who are joining the caravan back to Ered Luin to assist Thorin's people in their journey to Erebor, exactly whom to speak to about his home.

He trusts the Greenhands to manage his home while he is away. He does not know when he will return, because something remains unsaid between him and Thorin, but he will stay with the Dwarves for now. He misses Bag-End fiercely, but he does need some of the comforts of home while he is here.

It is next year when Fíli and Kíli return. Erebor is clean with proper plumbing, central heating, and it is filling every day with more and more Dwarves, who give Bilbo odd looks but accept him as a hero. Bilbo has spent every day working alongside the remaining members of the Company. His share of the gold is held in trust, though Bilbo has been planning to sneak it back into the hoard -- what use has he for all of it?

He and Thorin spend a lot of time together. Words remain unsaid between them, but Bilbo is content. Thorin begged for forgiveness, that first week after the battle, apologizing for his rage and greed, but Bilbo had already forgiven him. Bilbo had forgiven him the moment he had seen Thorin laying there, bleeding and nearly dead.

Thorin lived. Bilbo's forgiveness has not wavered. Thorin regrets, though, and Bilbo can feel his guilt in that deep blue gaze, for nearly throwing Bilbo away, for giving up on him. Bilbo does not blame him. He understands, more than Thorin realizes.

Or perhaps Thorin does realize how much Bilbo understands. After all, he did ask Bilbo to stay.

Bilbo is delighted when Fíli and Kíli bustle into the hall where Bilbo's rooms are located -- right down the hall from Thorin's rooms, though Bilbo has never questioned why. Boxes are carried into his sitting room, and Bilbo opens them eagerly, finding his clothes, his books, his mother's glory box (cleaned of mud), and the packages he had requested. Fíli and Kíli had not packed his home themselves; thankfully, Holman, his father, and his cousin Hamfast had painstakingly packed away the most precious of Bilbo's belongings.

Fíli and Kíli have returned just in time for Yule. Snow is already piling up outside, and Bilbo has noticed wreaths of evergreen in the halls and sprigs of mistletoe in the doorways. He can smell the baking even from his rooms -- and though Bilbo is part of two families of good standing, he is still stunned at the rooms Thorin gave him! -- and oh, Bilbo aches to start the traditions of home.

This is a foreign land, though, and the traditions of Hobbits have no place in a mountain of Dwarves.

Or so Bilbo thinks, until Fíli and Kíli knock over one of his packages and are immediately intrigued by the sound of soft tinkling.

"What was that?" Kíli says, his eyes brightening with glee as he grabs for the box.

Fíli is quicker, scooping up the package and holding it to his ear as he shakes it, looking curious. "Sounds like something's broken," he says, and Bilbo huffs at them both.

"Give that to me," Bilbo says, but Fíli and Kíli have already begun to open the box. Bilbo lets out a loud noise that he will insist, later, was not a squawk. "Fíli! Kíli!" he snaps. Both boys freeze momentarily, shooting Bilbo wide-eyed looks, then grin in the exact same way and hold the box over Bilbo's head.

"You'll have to come and get it," Kíli says, reaching up to grab at the box, but Fíli ducks away from him.

"Give the box to Bilbo," Thorin says from Bilbo's desk, not looking up from the pile of books he has commandeered. The boys obey immediately. Fíli sheepishly hands over the box even as Kíli grabs for it again, and Bilbo glares at all of them.

"Nothing's _broken_. It's my mother's bells," Bilbo sniffs, setting the box on the desk and opening it, to reveal six silver bells, toned blue at the edges. He smiles as he pulls them out, carefully setting them on the desk, and smacks Kíli's hand when he reaches for one. "Don't touch them! They're very delicate, and they belonged to my great-grandmother. They're very important to me."

Thorin raises an eyebrow at the bells, but unlike his nephews, he does not seem interested in touching them. "They're tarnished. You should get them cleaned," he says dismissively, and Bilbo bristles.

"I will do no such thing! I quite like the blue, and my mother did too! It's my favorite color, you know," Bilbo says, his gaze darting to Thorin's eyes and back to the bells. "These are over two hundred years old -- I'm not going to do anything with them except hang them up for Yule!" Bilbo insists, gently packing the bells back into their box and giving Fíli and Kíli a scowl. The boys try their best to look innocent.

Thorin is quiet for a moment. "My apologies. You can hang them wherever you like," he rumbles, and Bilbo melts a bit at his awkward glance. They stare at each other for a few minutes, until Kíli clears his throat loudly and holds up an old tin with a picture of different candies on it.

"What's this for?"

"That's to hold sweets," Bilbo tells him dryly, and he is very pleased when he hears Thorin's chuckle.


	7. wrapping paper

One week before Yule, the quiet little store near the Central Library experiences a strange visit from one of their regular customers.

The silver bell rings as the door opens, and the shopkeeper looks up from his current customer to see who has come in. "Good morning, Master Baggins!" he calls, nodding to Erebor's famed Hobbit as he walks deeper into the store.

Bilbo Baggins nods a greeting, then immerses himself in the curious act of touching and rubbing every piece of paper he can find between his fingers.

"No," the Hobbit mutters. "Too thin. No. Too scratchy. No, not this one. No. No. Not this one. Too thin. Too sleek!" He goes through the entire store, and while the shopkeeper does not boast a particularly large selection of papers, he does pride himself on his product. Both he and his customer stare at the Hobbit, until, at last, the Hobbit seems to find what he is looking for.

"Hmm. It will have to do," Bilbo says, as the shopkeeper bristles and the other customer smirks. The Hobbit gathers a few other items, which mollifies the shopkeeper a bit, and walks over to the counter, nodding at the two Dwarves. Then he waits.

The shopkeeper rushes to finish his current customer, ignoring the small smirk of the other Dwarf, and goes about ringing Bilbo up. "Have a special project in mind?" he asks, with the air of someone who does not truly care, and Bilbo hums as he searches for his money bag.

"I'm wrapping up a few gifts," Bilbo says, and the shopkeeper rears back in surprise.

"Wrapping presents? My paper isn't for wrapping! What kind of papermaker do you take me fore? Go! Get out! Haven't you visited Thurna's shop two streets over? She has handkerchiefs just for pretty things you might give away," the Dwarf snorts, and Bilbo frowns at him.

"I prefer paper wrappings, and my gifts are a bit too large for handkerchiefs. I can't go anywhere else. You have the best paper around," the Hobbit says, his eyes widening, and the shopkeeper scowls at him.

"Finest paper in Erebor, and you know it! I suppose, if you're looking for wrapping paper, you might want to look at the rolls on the back wall," the shopkeeper says grudgingly, and Bilbo beams at him.

Twenty minutes of haggling later, Bilbo walks out with four rolls of carefully wrapped paper, a small bag of brightly toned inks, and a smug smile. The shopkeeper is left with the expression of someone who thinks he has been duped but can find no true evidence of trickery.

~

One week later, thirteen Dwarves find various gifts in their homes, each covered in different toned wrapping paper. Each gift has green, red, or gold lines inked into the paper, and each is tied with dark blue or red ribbon. They all contain cards with messages, and each Dwarf is pleased by what he finds inside the present. In some homes, the wrapping paper is torn from the package and tossed to the floor, forgotten. In others, it is delicately folded up and tucked away to be admired again one day. Every one of those thirteen Dwarves, though, marvels at the beauty of their Yule gifts.

Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, finds three gifts, beautifully wrapped, at the foot of his bed when he wakes on Yuletide morning. He has no idea how they came to be there, but he suspects a certain light-footed Hobbit. Instead of opening them -- he can guess what they contain, anyway -- and goes to find the Hobbit in question himself, as the gift he intends to give need not be wrapped.


	8. crackers

The young boy looks over at his mother, who nods at him. Then he grabs each end of the bright yellow cracker and pulls with all his might.

_POP!_

"Ho! What did you get, lad?" says Bungo Baggins over his pipe, and little Bilbo Baggins shrieks with glee.

"It's a hat! I got a hat, papa!" Bilbo shouts, waving the paper hat around and climbing up Bungo's lap. "Look! I got a hat!" He pulls open the paper and puts it on his head, but the green paper slides down on his thick curls and covers his eyes. He giggles as Bungo sets his pipe aside and reaches up to fix it.

"Now you're a proper little prince, just like your mother the queen," Bungo says, smiling, and Bilbo beams at him. Then he turns around on Bungo's knee to fix pleading eyes on his mother.

"Another one, mama? Please? Papa can pull it with me!" Bilbo asks, and Belladonna Baggins laughs, lifting another cracker from the table and handing it to her son. She already has a bright yellow crown on her head, which Bilbo put there himself a few minutes before.

"There you are, dear heart. Now be careful, just like you were before," she cautions, and Bilbo nods seriously before turning back to his father. "Pull it, papa!" he says, holding out one end to Bungo.

Bungo shares an amused look with his wife, who just smiles and takes his pipe to smoke. "I'll hold this end, and you pull as hard as you can, okay?" Bungo offers, grabbing hold of the cracker, and Bilbo nods quickly.

"Okay!" The young Hobbit grabs the other end with both hands and tugs, bracing his feet on the arm of Bungo's chair, and he shrieks with laughter when it pops open and another paper hat, deep blue, drifts down.

"Now papa has a hat!" Bilbo says, and he stands on Bungo's legs to set the paper hat upon his father's head. Bungo smiles at him, then grabs him around the middle to tickle him, which makes the young boy shout and giggle. Belladonna laughs, her gaze warming with happiness as she watches her husband and son. She is rather glad she bought those crackers from the Dwarf stall when it was in town!


	9. carols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: "[In December](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1RuTDNGbf0)" is written by Jay Althouse.

_"Deck the halls with boughs of holly! Fa la la la la..."_

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Thorin says, scowling and leaning back from his laptop to glare at the window. It is snowing and dark -- what person in their right mind would go caroling at this hour? He grumbles and tries to focus on his story again, but the singing down the street continues, making him grit his teeth. 

_"'Tis the season to be jolly! Fa la la la la, la la la la!"_

"Humbug," he mutters, smiling at the irony. His nephews and sister are on the other side of the country this Christmas with his brother, and though Thorin misses them, he is glad for the quiet. It gives him time to work on his book -- so long as rude carolers do not continue to bother him.

The singing fades to the distance as the carolers move on down the street, and Thorin is left to type in contentment, sipping from a mug every now and then. Christmas dinner was a bowl of stew, left over from the other day, and warm crusty bread that was his Christmas gift to himself. He has presents from his family and friends under the tree (which Dís forced him to put up under pain of death), but Thorin has always cared more about the people he spends the holiday with than the presents he receives.

Tonight he is alone, and he does not care. So he tells himself.

Some time later, Thorin hears a knock, and he huffs in irritation. _More carolers, I'll bet,_ he thinks, standing and stalking out of his den to the front door.

"Do you know what time it is?" he growls as he opens the door, but he stops short upon seeing who stands there.

Bilbo Baggins, his neighbor from the other side of the street, stands nervously on Thorin's front step, carrying a heavy bag. He is bundled up tightly in a thick scarf, woolen hat, and dark red coat, and for all that he lives just across the street, he already looks half-frozen. Thorin has no idea what he is doing here, but his heart speeds up anyway; he has liked Bilbo from afar for months now.

Wordlessly, Bilbo holds out the bag, and Thorin takes it, staring at his neighbor in confusion. The bag is warm in his hands, making the crisp December air easier to bear. He is about to speak, when Bilbo gives him a glance and straightens his shoulders.

Then Bilbo begins to sing, and Thorin forgets that he is holding anything.

"In December, in December, when the nights are growing cold," Bilbo sings quietly, his cheeks slowly turning pink. "In December, we remember our traditions new and old." He raises his eyes to meet Thorin's, his voice raising as well. "Light a candle in the window. Light a candle, watch it glow. In the dark of the night, a flame burning bright reminds of days long ago."

Thorin stays quiet, as Bilbo gathers his breath.

"In December, in December, hear the music choirs sing. In December, we remember all the joy that love can bring," Bilbo sings, and Thorin's breath catches in his throat as their eyes meet.

"Light a candle in the window. Light a candle, watch it glow. In the dark of the night, a flame burning bright reminds us of days long ago... In December, in December, when the nights are growing cold... in December, we remember our traditions new and old. In December, in December, celebrate with peace and love," Bilbo finishes softly, and though his cheeks are bright red now and his voice is shaking, Thorin is irresistably and completely charmed.

He sets the bag on a table and tugs Bilbo into the house, pulling him inside and into his arms.


End file.
